


Another You, Another Me, Another Way

by Nicolinan



Category: Red Eye (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 03:23:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14150889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicolinan/pseuds/Nicolinan
Summary: I should have told them that he came to my house that day. I should have told Dad that we had a visitor, a deadly, crazy, blue-eyed visitor who might as well have killed us both. I should have… Well, I didn't. If I had, then I might not have found myself naked, gagged,  and bound to an uncomfortable chair some weeks down the road.





	1. Caught

_ Dad! _

My gasps comes out in short erratic wheezes as I drive way above speed limit on the I-195 from Miami International Airport to the beautiful suburbs where my father lives. Beautiful,  and now deadly. Like him. I will never look at my hometown the same way again. I'll always see it through the eyes of an assassin.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The call to Cynthia went through and I can at least hope that they are able to save Charles Keefe and his family. My whole soul recoils at the thought that I might have been too late. All I see is fire, dismembered bodies, burnt hair, and blood. I shake my head to clear it.  _ Focus! _

"Okay. One more."  _ Please! _

The greenish display on Jackson's cell phone bleeps teasingly once, then it dies in my hand.  _ No! _

"Damn!"

I look around me and then swerve to the right not to miss the next exit. Someone behind me honks his horn angrily, but I really don't care.  _ Fuck off! _ People-pleasing days are over. Someone killed every last bit of that in me. Killed my innocence. Killed my already flickering light. I ache inside just thinking of it.

As if on cue, Jackson's face appears before my eyes. My body remembers every touch, every look, every breath. He leers, but his features change into pure shock as I yet again, in the obtrusive memory that keeps repeating itself over and over, shove the pen into his trachea. I shudder at the thought. Even in this short retrospective I can't believe I did that, I can't even remember what I was thinking. I would never have thought he would recover as quickly as he did, though, and the escape through the arrivals terminal was a horrifyingly close call.

The stolen SUV takes the sharp curve almost on two screeching wheels and I roll up on Blossom Palms Lane, my father's street.

With a wildly pounding heart I strain to see the 'silver Beemer' that is supposedly parked outside my dad's house, but there is nothing. My eyes narrow. Will he prove to be just a liar after all? After all his high-strung speeches? A quick glance at the clock tells me that it is six in the morning. Early, but not too early. Dad should be awake, but I can't see any signs of life.  _ Oh, God! What if…?  _ The thought is too frightening to even finish. He can't have had the time to kill my father, can he? What if he lied? What if he had him killed earlier tonight, during the flight? What if I fought for all this for nothing?

No, not 'nothing'. Keefe. But it's… distant… They are distant, not here, not with me, and they weren't with me on the plane. THIS is real, this is my life. And I have to face it alone.

In front of my father's house there's no car, no life, no movements. Nothing. I veer across the neatly cut lawn and come to a screeching halt diagonally across the driveway, then I jump out of the car, struggling to get free from the seatbelt.

The door is locked. My trembling finger presses the doorbell and I hear the dinging sound from inside, but then… nothing. No energetic steps on the marble floor. What if he's in trouble in there? I pull at the handle once more, yanking it hard, and then I remember the spare key by the kitchen entrance. Dashing around the corner, I stick my hand under the large terracotta pot. Key.

I unlock and swing the door fully open, listening, inhaling, sensing. It's quiet. Too quiet. Dead quiet, as if no one has been breathing in this house for many hours. Running through the house, I scream for my father. I feel so small all of a sudden. What can I do? I want my dad! I need him. I need to see that he's okay!

The large rooms are empty. There's no sign of him. His bed is neatly made and it seems as if he never even slept in it. And there's no message anywhere. But there's no body either.

Is that a good sign?

I spot the phone and dive on it, calling The Lux immediately. Cynthia picks up after one signal. She sounds distraught.

"Lux Atlantic, how can I help you?" she breathes into the receiver, sounding every bit like Cynthia and at the same time sounding nothing like the vivacious girl I know.

"Cynthia! Are you okay?"

They're all okay, and I fall back onto a chair in relief, but Cynthia seems completely lost. The manager in me sparks to life again. It feels good in the midst of it all. It gives me something to focus on.  _ And I saved them! _ "I'm coming right away. Cyn, have you heard from my father?"

It's a long shot. I hold my breath until my lungs ache. But no. No, she hasn't. I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and hang up, darting back through the kitchen to get out.

I stop flat.

_ What the-? _

_ JACKSON! No! How? _

His lean, dark appearance seems so misplaced in my father's bright kitchen. The sun is shining giddily through the windows and there shouldn't be any murderers standing on the terracotta tiles in front of the fridge. The sun shines through the window and he sucks up all the light. The whole picture is wrong.

"Hi!" he wheezes, malice plastered all over his face.

A thrill wracks my chest, making my breaths erratic and my knees weak. The momentary attraction hits me like a punch to my stomach and then it is immediately replaced by fear. I back up a quavering step. I breathe. In, forgetting the 'out'. "Where's my dad? You promised!"

"If you complied, yes," he rasps. He stalks another step closer and I back away again.

"What are you doing here?" I cry in despair. "I made the call!"

He smirks and cocks his head as he strolls even closer, casually almost, as if he has all the time in the world. "Things change, Leese! I'm here to-" He swallows hard, the pain of it obvious in his face. "Finish the job!" The last words carry a frightening cruelty to them and a promise of vengeance.

Something dark flares up with in me. Something angry.  _ You HURT me! You're not finishing this 'job'!  _ A sudden triumph jolts in my chest and I grin.  _ I know something that'll crush you, you… bastard! _

"Well you're too late! Keefe's alive. In that hotel… everyone's alive!"

My grin turns into a victorious smile.  _ I hope this'll hurt! _

"You failed, JACK!"

At first he thinks it's yet another lie. I can see it in the way he glares at me as if I'm a mere annoyance. Then his eyes flare up and he takes a giant leap forward, his face a frightening image of rage. "I'll finish the job," he spits, his voice more of an animalistic growl than anything I've ever heard before, the wheezing from his damaged trachea making him sound inhuman.

That thrill of fear mixed with excitement rattles through my chest again, pushing heated adrenaline through my system, making my veins buzz and quaver. "Not in my house, you don't!" I snarl right back and spin on my heel, back through the opening to the hallway, a furious Jackson leaping up close behind me.

I slam a door closed, he tears it open; I rip a chair in his way and he trips over it, giving me a second's advance.

He's in the wrong place - right for him, wrong for me. I can't reach either of the exits. My knees feel as if they will give in any moment and my thighs tremble violently as I dart up the stairs to the second floor, virtually hearing his wheezing breaths close behind me. Dashing into the bathroom, his hand just about reaches the door knob before I pull the door closed and lock it. The door, the whole wall, reverberates as he slams into it from the other side.

I take a step back, more afraid now than I was a moment ago in the kitchen. This has gone too far. I'm alone with a murderer on the other side of a thin door. A furious professional murderer. Alone in this house. With me.

"What do you want?" I cry. "Stop this! Don't do this."

He doesn't answer; instead the whole door shakes violently from something hard hitting it, once, twice.

_ He's kicking it!  _ "Where's your 'male-driven fact-based logic' now?" I sneer. "You're so full of shit, JACK!"

Another violent thrust at the door and the distinct sound of wood splinting makes me back up several steps.  _ Oh, God! _ Then I flee out of the other exit from the bathroom, into my old bedroom. I need something to defend myself with. I look around me, then I stiffen and listen. It's too quiet. _ Where did he go? What are you doing?  _ A chill creeps down my spine and then up again, like a tremor, like a slowly melting ice cube, making me shiver in spite of the steadily rising August heat outside. Maybe he's figured out there's another way around? In frenzy, I look under my bed. No.  _ Where is it? _ My old field hockey stick ought to make a kick-ass weapon… Closet!

My mouth is dry from fear as I tiptoe across the floor, begging the hinges won't squeak. They do.  _ Oh, no. _ I stop immediately, sweating, my heart slamming in my chest. I still don't hear anything. I squeeze myself through the narrow crack and search the top shelf, behind the clothes, under boxes of old photos… THERE! In the corner. My fingers grip around the smooth wooden surface and I exhale. At least I have something.

I listen again. I don't know what he's up to. Maybe I could stay in here? I contemplate it for a second, but then I realize that then I'll be completely trapped if he finds me. Better to be on the move until I can find a way to get out of the house. And where's dad!  _ What have they done to you? _ I have to keep thinking that he's alive, that he is well. If I give in to the hopelessness that threatens to swallow me, thinking that they have murdered him, then I might as well just lie down and die. Here and now. How easy it would be to just step out of the closet right now and call for him.  _ Show yourself! Come and kill me then!  _ Then I wouldn't have to fight anymore, then my life wouldn't be so complicated… so difficult… it'd be very short _. _

_ Get a GRIP! _

I swallow hard against my fright and my deep disappointment.  _ Why? Why did you have to be this man? _ I realize that my initial attraction to him was much stronger than I wanted to admit, and the knowledge now of who, or what, he really is lies like a heavy stone over my chest.

Step by step, I carefully leave my old girl's room, shedding my old world, my old life. I don't even know if I'll ever get out of this house again. If I'll live. I realize it'll have to be him or me… and he has probably killed before, I have no illusions… I, on the other hand… I hesitate to kill even a fly.

My mother's old room. Dad's office. Walk-in closet. Dad's bedroom. Guestroom. Dear God… he's nowhere… Maybe he left? Please, say it is so! I walk back to Dad's bedroom and close and lock the door behind me, narrowing down his options. Then I open the door to the hallway. A large shadow slams the door in my face and I throw myself back, tripping on the carpet but managing to stay on my feet.

_ NO! _

I scream and raise the stick. Jackson circles me, his face a sneer and he has a knife in his hand. A KNIFE! He lunges at me and I back up, terrified.  _ No, please, don't! Don't do this! _

I back away yet another step and he comes closer, his steps measured, the knife lifted, ready to stab. My back touches the wall and I feel desperately for the door knob and twist it. Nothing happens.  _ Oh no! I locked it!  _ Remembering what I have in my hands, I raise the stick higher and hold it between us, ready to hit him if he moves.

He cocks his head and smirks. "Lisa," he rasps. "We both know you've lost. Just give in to the inevitable and this will soon be over."

My lips are numb with fear. "What are you going to do?" I breathe. "Stay where you are!"

He moves.

"DON'T come any closer!" I cry.

He lunges for me again and I slam the stick against him, hitting his shoulder. With a terrifying roar, he drops the knife, and then he's got me.

"NO!" I squeal. The world spins as he twists me and slams me against the wall, trying to get the stick out of my hands. My head hits something hard, and then he kicks my feet away and I lose contact with the floor. "No! Jacks- N- Don't!" I pant and try to get away from him, but I fall and he falls on top of the heap that is my body. I still have the stick, but trying to get up, I have to let it go with one hand and then he easily wrings it out of my other hand, flinging it across the room.

Battling his arms, I fight until the end, until he straddles me and falls heavily on top of me, his forearm against my throat and his other hand in my hair, pushing me hard against the floor. My chest heaves against his, my breasts crushed under his weight. Our eyes meet and I'm stunned by the intensity of his gaze. Even when he radiates hate and fury, like now, it's distressing to have him so close, for so many reasons that I don't even want to think of.

"Please," I rasp, swallowing hard against his forearm. "Don't do this, don't kill me! You… don't have to…" I stop myself when I realize I'm pathetically repeating myself.

"And why not? Why the hell wouldn't I kill you after you tried to do me in? It'd only be fair." His hand in my hair shifts and with his other hand he grips one of mine and forces it up to his scarf-clad neck. His fingers grips vice-like around mine and I tremble violently from the unexpected skin-on-skin contact.

"What are you-" I whisper and flinch when he forces the tips of my fingers to touch his throat.

"Do you have any idea how much that hurt?"

I swallow hard. "Not as much as I believe it hurts to get murdered, and to watch your children die in a terrorist attack!" I spit, barely managing to keep control of my voice.

His eyes narrow as he regards me. "They would've gone fast, and together. That's the way we should all go if we had the choice."

I squirm and his hand, grasping my hair, shifts again. His fingertips are pressing into the softness of my neck, and every time he moves them it sends a shock throughout my body.

He leans closer, oh so close, too… close. "That's not the way you and I will go, Leese. People like you and I have another death reserved for them."

I try to bend my head away but his other hand grips my chin and forces me to be still. His thumb presses painfully hard against my lower lip, if I open my mouth it will slip in. My heart pounds wildly and I can barely breathe. "What is that?" I gasp, tasting the slight saltiness from his thumb. I want to lick my lip, but I can't because it would mean that I licked his thumb and I most CERTAINLY don't want to do that.

He presses his thumb more insistently against my lip, shifting it slightly, almost like a bruising caress.

I jerk, but I'm not going anywhere, his body against my body and his arms around my head are keeping me firmly in place.

"A violent death, Leese. One day you piss off the wrong person… YOU especially! And BANG, you have a knife in your throat, gagging on your own blood, metallic tasting, thick, warm liquid squirting life out of your body until you're pale and cold. And dead."

There's something about that graphic vivid image, and about how his breathing reverberates into me that makes me vibrate, like a humming that grows stronger and stronger. "You- you're disgusting, Jack!" I want to think it. I want to feel like I believe it. So I have to say it.

He smirks and pushes his thumb harder against my lip, scraping my teeth, then he leans so close that I feel his breath on my ear. "And that's why your heart is beating so rapidly, isn't it?"

_ I- It- WHAT? _ I gasp and struggle in his hold to get him off me, all of a sudden too aware of every bit of his body that is cutting into every little bit of mine. My cheeks flush hot and I want to scream at the unfairness. I don't want to be here!

His hand in my hair tightens its grip until my scalp tingles from pain. I stop fighting immediately when something soft and warm nibbles at my throat.

_ You… what? _ "What are you doing?" I gasp and immediately wish I hadn't asked when his thumb slides all the way into my mouth, obscenely mimicking an entirely other part of the human anatomy. "Mmmmm!" I cry, unable to produce anything coherent, the scream only managing to mold my tongue around his thumb.

"What was that, Leese? You want this deeper?" He pulls the thumb out a little and then pushes it deeper again.

"Mngh!" I graze my teeth against the invading digit and feel a warning tug in my hair.

"Don’t even think it." With his thumb still lodged deeply in my mouth, he pushes at my chin, bending my head far away until I can't see his face.

I try to speak again, but only muffled sounds come out and I'm suddenly so afraid. I want to see him! I need to be able to look him in the eyes, no matter what he intends to do with me. My erratic breathing seems to reach him and he heaves himself up to regard me, his eyes narrowing. I look into his pale eyes, sometimes so beautiful, sometimes so cold, and shake my head, willing him to understand. Agonizingly slowly, he pulls his thumb all the way out until the tip only rests against my trembling lower lip.

' _ The name's Jackson.' _

"What are you doing?" I whisper. His thumb caresses a pattern, back and forth, back and forth, leaving burning marks. "I thought you came here to kill me."

His voice is a stream of hot air on my cheek. "That what you want… Lisa?" His cheek is so close to mine that I can feel his warmth and the slight stubble on his cheek rasping against my skin. ”Is that really what you want?”

' _ What, you're not sitting here.' _

My head suddenly hurts from all the fighting, and the long night without any sleep. "What is it you want from me?" I whisper.

' _ Someone do that to you?' _

He doesn't answer. Instead his hand leaves my cheek and caresses its way down along my throat, tracing my collar bone and then slides, as if by accident, over my breast. I gasp from the shock and can't help the slight arch of my back when my body reacts to his.

"I should kill you… Lisa…" His voice is thick with arousal and it booms right through my belly, making me quiver. "I really should…" His hand on my breast presses hard, squeezing the softness with such force that it both hurts and sends cramps of want through my entire body. “But it would be a bit of a shame.”

I whimper in his hold, afraid, aroused, confused. I've been so painfully attracted to him from the first moment when we met in the check-in line. I fought it desperately on the plane, unable to accept that there could be any kind of chemistry between us during these circumstances. And now… the fact that HE must've felt the same frightens me even more than my own feelings. That he feels the same way… means… that this is far from over. That he wants… more…  _ Oh, God!  _ I moan when his thumb circles my nipple through the flimsy fabric of my top, close, so close, but never quite touching.

Then he pulls at my blouse, revealing the hated scar. His index finger caresses it, back, forth, back, forth, making it tingle, blossom. "What did he do to you, Lisa," he rasps.

Those simple words suddenly remind me how precarious my situation is, how much it resembles the assault two years ago. My voice is so small when I answer. "It was over so quick… I- I don't remember."

His hand that clutches my hair yanks hard and I can't help letting out a scream from the pain. "No bullshit this time. I've had quite enough of that!"

"ME?" I cry, the pain in my scalp intermingling with the tickling tingling that radiates from his warm hand on my chest. "I'm no… YOU'RE the one who's been full of shit the whole night!"

He regards me, biting his lower lip, then he leans forward until his mouth touches my ear, whispering sensuously. "I need to know… and I think you really need to tell… right?"

I swallow hard. I don't want to admit that anything he says can be true, but nevertheless I find myself inhaling to speak, looking up into his unbelievably clear eyes. "I had a skirt… he pulled it up…"

"Like now?" he asks, his hand leaving my chest and sliding past my waist, my hip bone, along my upper thigh until it reaches the hem of my skirt. I inhale sharply as he begins to pull it up, inch by inch. "Like this?"

My throat hurts with held-back tears and I begin to tremble again. "Yes," I whisper.  _ He just didn't do it as… smoothly… _

"And then," he asks hungrily, his hand stopping, warm and heavy on my hip. His skin on mine makes me vibrate.

"Ahm…" I'm so afraid to continue. Will he follow my every word with the exact same moves? "Then he raped me…" I pray that he won't.

"Mm-oww!" My scalp hurts as he pulls my head back hard.

"More details."

"I'm afraid," I whisper.

"Say what?"

"I'm afraid… of you…"

The hand on my hip grips harder, grabbing a chunk of my flesh and squeezing viciously as he pulls my body closer to his. "You should be, Leese. I can't decide whether I should kill you here and now or…"

I jerk my head and try to get loose, but his hold is unyielding. "Or what?"

"If I should take you. Here and now."

"Oh… don't."

He wedges his legs in between mine and I don't know why, but I pull my legs up to give him just a little more space, my body responding to his no matter if I want it or not, no matter how much my mind tells me that it's wrong.

"Leese," he whispers. "Don't tell me no just because you think you need to. Just shut the fuck up."

I stare up at him, my mouth opening and closing several times. I can't speak. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"Don't you think that I didn't know from the start how you looked at me, how your big eyes pleaded with me to be kind, to stay, to take you."

I swallow hard, feeling his body so tight against mine, his hard length so obvious against my mound, perfectly placed, perfectly fitting, horrifyingly fitting. I need that feeling so desperately and arch in the tiniest of movement to meet him. I shake my head, keeping his beautiful eyes locked with mine, pleading with him wordlessly to stop this game before it gets out of hand.

"That last part… I might fulfill… but I'm not-" He presses harder against me. “-very kind.”

Something inside me explodes with fear, anger and hurt, and I twist and jerk to get him off me, pulling and pushing to try to dislodge him. "Don'tdon'tdon't, please, Jackson, please!"

He doesn't give me one inch, instead his mouth crashes onto mine, sucking, biting, devouring until I taste a slight tang of blood in the meeting between our lips. I try to bend my head away, but his hands press firmly against my cheeks and keep my head lodged in his rough hold.

It hurts. I want to tell him that it hurts. My hands push at the sides of his chest and under my fingers I feel the taught muscles on his rib cage, how they ripple when he moves, how he breathes. In. Out. Somewhere along the violent kiss, my pushing turns into a clenching, clasping hold.  _ Oh, God _ , he feels so… I don't know. I can't think 'good'… I refuse… to… His lips are all I feel, I'm nothing but the tender flesh that meets with his brutal force. I'm as dizzy, as if I am on a boat. Wave after wave rolls over the bedroom floor, and I roll with it. I realize I've stopped fighting and when he notices it too, he lets go of my bruised lips and regards me. His face is flustered. I'm betting mine is too. Then he smiles. It's not a nice smile. There's nothing kind in the way he looks at me. I feel like I'm prey and he's a predator.

I shake my head. For the hundredth time, I think. "Don't do this," I pant.

He cocks his head, then he gives out a barking laugh. His hand slides down my cheek again, down along my throat, covers my breast where deft fingers find my nipple under the fabric of my blouse and begins to squeeze it. "Stop fighting it, Leese." His hand leaves my breast and continues to slide down along the side of my body, finding naked skin where my skirt has been pushed to my waist. I jump at the contact but he presses me flush to the carpet, his hand softly caressing the front of my thigh before it progresses to the inside, his thumb stroking circles on my skin, closer and closer to where my thighs meet. I fight the urge to buck my hips to meet with his hand, my traitorous body wanting to get closer to what feels so… thrilling… tingling… Instead I twist and try to back away from the hand that has come so near my nether flesh that I can feel the heat from his fingers.

“Just stop fucking fighting me,” He say in a thick, raspy, voice.

I gasp when he touches my panties, stroking my softness through them, and then pushes hard against me, his lips finding mine again. 

"You're trembling," he whispers into my mouth as his fingers on my clitoris find the rhythm of the humming inside me, making me arch into him.

"Stop… Jackson…" I swallow hard, unable to say more because he steals every little bit of my breath away, devouring my mouth, claiming my tongue and my whole being. My legs have started to shake, the humming inside increasing with my heart rate, and his hand on my throat is almost choking me, mixing sweet pleasure with panic until I can't separate one from the other.

He lets go of my lips and pushes my head away until I can only see the white painted wall behind me. I let out a squeal as I feel his teeth sink into the side of my neck. I think I feel him chuckle, but I'm having a hard time feeling anything else than his hand between my legs, his teeth grazing my shoulder, collarbone, chest, breast. Breast. Breast. Hand. Breast. Hand. Hand. Hand-

_ Oh, GOD! _

I shake in his hold, my insides clench and unclench and the tumultuous waves that roll under me now also roll over me, through me, inside me. I sob and hold on tight to his shoulders until the rippling in my body slowly subsides and I can breathe again. My heart races. He's still holding my head away from him, as if he doesn't want to look at me.

When he lets me go, I lift my head and glance warily at him. His eyes are glazed and his lips are swollen.

We stare at each other for an infinite moment, both panting as if we'd just evaded drowning, then he pushes up my blouse and my bra in one move and I rip his shirt out of the waist of his pants.  _ I want to feel your skin! I need to feel YOU! _

A noise from the bottom floor halts us momentarily. Jackson reacts first. "Who's that," he whispers.

I shake my head. "I don-… My FATHER," I whisper back, my heart suddenly jolting with hope. And then with fear. "Oh, please… DON'T!"  _ Don't kill him! _

His eyes are unreadable, as always. He shuffles his limbs together and stand, stuffing his shirt back into his pants, corrects his flawless jacket and then pulls his fingers through his unruly tresses. I try to sit up straighter and jerk when I hear my dad's distant voice, hesitant, unsure.

"Leese?"

I look up at Jackson, cowering before him, my body still stretching to his, wanting more, craving to finish what was so unrightfully interrupted. He bites his lower lip and crouches before me, his gaze shifts between the sound of the voice from somewhere in the house and my disheveled appearance.

A hint of a smirk briefly grazes his lips.

"We'll talk again."

It happens before I even know I'm doing it. My arm stretches up and I slap him hard in the face. My palm stings and his cheek takes on a glowing tone. He touches the angry red mark with his fingertips. I shift on the floor and try to back away from him but I'm already pressed up against the wall, going nowhere. Licking his lip, his eyes flashing, he then cocks his head and snorts.

Then he's gone.

He disappears like a whisper. One moment he stands before me. All too real. The next he's gone. As if he never happened.

I start when I hear steps in the stairs.  _ Oh, Jesus!  _ My legs still tremble and I have to fight my way up, smoothing out my crumpled skirt and my ruined blouse, jerking to get back inside my bra. The skin on my chin is chapped and my cheeks feel as hot as if I'd spent the day in the relentless sun. Maybe I did - but the night instead, and the sun dark and cold as the infinite space. When my trembling hands try to even out the wrinkles on my blouse my gaze happens to fall on all the little bruises covering my upper chest.  _ Bite marks! _ In an instant I realize what they are and the memory of his mouth on my skin makes me gasp, it's like a blow to my belly and with tingling thighs I stumble as I look around me for something to cover myself with. My eyes settle on a blanket on dad's bed.

"Dad," I croak while I cover myself. "Dad, I'm here!" When he opens the door, I fall into his arms as tears, real tears begin to fall.

"Lisa? What happened here? Whose car is it outside and…" He holds me at arms distance. "How do you look? Honey, what happened? Are you alright?"

' _ No, no, that's your dad's department.' _

_ Beat it! _

"Where were you? I thought you were dead!"

"I went to pick you- Why would I be dead?"

I shake my head and try to clear it. "I have to get to the Lux. Do you have your car? I'll tell you on the way there."

His worried gaze follows my every move and then he nods.

When I sit next to my dad in the car, safety belt on, covered in a blanket, I finally start to get back to myself again. I'm going to take care of Cynthia, the mess at the hotel, explain everything to the best of my knowledge to the police, to Charles Keefe, to the CIA, the FBI, the hotel management, and everyone else who needs to know in order to set things straight.

_ What if I had been another me? What if you had been another… you? _

I don't know what happened up there. But it won't happen again.

He's looming like a dark shadow over my soul, his presence almost palpable here, in the mayhem at the Lux Atlantic. His last words follow me when I on shaky legs approach the disaster I helped him create.

' _ We'll talk again.' _


	2. Bound

_ I should have told them that he came to my house that day. I should have told Dad that we had a visitor, a deadly, crazy, blue-eyed visitor who might as well have killed us both. I should have… Well, I didn't. If I had, then I might not have found myself bound to an uncomfortable chair some weeks down the road. _

_ Naked. _

_ Gagged. _

_ Terrified. _

_ Wait. Let's rewind this. It's fairer to share the whole story, isn't it? _

I help in any way that I can. Cynthia and the Lux are a mess. I comfort to the left and right and give out orders until I am relieved of that by higher-ups and the police. I give them his name, sit for hours with a professional artist working for the FBI and describe Jackson's eerily handsome features to them, shuddering as grey shades on a white piece of paper slowly, but surely, transforms into  _ him _ .

They take my clothes and my fingerprints. I protest wildly when they try to do a full-body exam. I was only with him on the plane, I sneer. Let me keep some amount of dignity. I blush and try to hide it when I think of the marks on my body. 

When all is gathered, photographed, collected, catalogued, and done with, they tell me that he doesn't seem to exist.  _ He doesn't exist. _ Does that mean that he won't come after me? Does that mean that they think I did all of this myself? His marks are on my body. I know he exists.  _ We'll talk again. _

But there are witnesses, phone calls that were made, a cell phone with fingerprints on it, shorter, darker hairs sorted out of my longer locks, unexplainable unless my version is true. And I'm off the hook.

"Miss Reisert, you have been involved in a very serious attempt at an upstanding politician's and his family's lives-"

I swallow hard.

"We have reason to believe that your version is solid, and on top of that, Mr. Keefe vouches for you."

I swallow again.

"You are no longer a suspect." The special agent smiles, a smile that never reaches his eyes. I sense the underlying threat. 'We will keep our eyes on you.' I hope they'll be there when he shows up again. I hope they'll save my life when it comes to that.

I am so close to asking the artist if I can have a copy of that sketch. It's in black and white but I almost see the blue tinges in his eyes, strong and willful, persuasive, kind and mean, all at the same time. But I don't ask. How would I explain that?

Calm is a fraud. Peace is a state of mind and not a fact in this violent world.

I've been jittery, I've refused to take time off from work, my house is meticulously clean, and I've never run so many miles per week before in my life. After the first few of weeks of skewed reality, of a feeling of hopelessness in a vile, volatile world, I've finally convinced myself that I am calm, unafraid, that I am safe. I've been watching my father's house, making rounds every night after work, passing by every morning on my way to work. It has helped keep my focus off myself. But that was before. Before the calm, before the peace. Because I refuse to go through two new hellish years of nightmares and self loathing. I don't deserve that. I didn't do anything wrong.

It's Saturday morning, nine a.m., and a very innocent time of day. The sun shines brightly through crystal clear windows, partly open to the warm breeze that brings with it scents of hot asphalt, salt from the ocean, and newly cut grass.

I am calm. For real.

The doorbell clings twice and I put down my steaming cup of freshly made coffee before I make it to the hallway.

_ Yes, maybe I should have known. But I didn't. _

I pull a strand of hair away from my face as I swing the door open. And freeze.  _ Oh God! _ His hand slams into my chest before I can utter a word, before I can even think of closing the door. I stumble back and fall ungracefully on my back. Terrifyingly fast, he pulls the door shut behind him, locks it and bends over me, collecting my arms in his before he flips me over on my belly. I still haven't had the time to react, but now the scream fills me, the terror and the naked fear so strong that it turns my body into a useless quivering puddle. I inhale sharply only to have a palm, a salty-tasting, well-known palm, pressed to my face. The scream comes anyway, I'm too far gone and I can't prevent it, but it's inefficient, a hoarse mumble reverberating against the callousness of his willpower.

My mouth is still open wide in a soundless cry when he stuffs something deep inside it, a cloth, a rag. I try to spit it out, try to shape my tongue around it to push it out of my mouth, but it's shoved too far inside and I almost choke on it in my attempts to get rid of it. While I'm fighting the cloth, he fiddles behind my back and I feel something tighten around my arms, until they are connected like one, pain already radiating up my shoulders and my neck.

In less than a minute I've gone from peace to a bundle of fear and tied-up limbs on my hallway floor. The coffee's still hot and as I trash on the floor, he stands, studies his work, stretches for the cup,  _ my  _ cup and takes a sip.

"Nice coffee, Leese. I must remember to get myself an espresso machine one of these days. There's nothing like freshly ground beans." He smirks and takes another sip before he sets the cup back down. "Aw, don't cry. A man can only take so much." He crouches before me. "How many times have I made you cry?" His eyes narrow and he makes a face as if he's counting. "Three? Oh, well…" He shrugs and stands. "That's not a lot. Let's see if we can make that four, maybe five… and six… all in a day's work." He straightens a rope between fisted hands and bends over my legs, tying them as tightly together as my arms, quickly, deftly. He's done this before. Many a time. I don't even try to prevent him. I'm a wuss, I know, but I don't stand a chance.

I fight to swallow my saliva without swallowing the cloth and gag, panicking when it slides slightly further into the back of my mouth, my eyes watering from the coughing and vomiting reflexes it sets off. "Mmmmm," I cry and plead with my eyes for him to show mercy. I don't want to choke slowly to death. I want to die from a stab wound to my heart, or maybe a gunshot wound, the quick violent death he promised me the last time we met. Because I know I'll die. I know he's here to kill me. I only pray it'll be fast.

Jackson straightens again and looks around him before he grabs my arms and starts pulling me towards the living room. I twist and wriggle in his grip, turning from my belly to my side and back to my belly again. The carpet leaves rough burn marks on my hip where my pants slide increasingly lower from the friction and my tears flow freely from the pain, the fear, and the degradation.

Not being able to speak is the most humiliating part of it. I can't beg him, I can't tell him that I hate him, I can't lie, cheat, cajole. I'm completely, hopelessly in his hands. And I know he's up to no good.

He drops me unceremoniously in the middle of the room, shoves the table and a chair to the side before leaving the room altogether. I lie motionless, feeling nothing but dread, already so burnt out on fear that it has now become a dull throbbing in my heart rather than that sharp spike that just might keep a person alive.  _ Me _ alive.

I've given up already.

He returns a moment later with a kitchen chair and places it right next to my head. Then he sits down, straddling the chair backwards and looks at me.

"Are you afraid yet?" His voice is softer than I anticipated. I expected rage, fury, an explosion of hate. Instead he sounds like a cool spring morning covered in sugary dew.

I bend my head awkwardly and look up at him. I don't nod, I don't shake my head. It won't matter if I comply or if I'm playing defiant to my last breath. He won't forgive me my refusal to budge that day.

He regards me. "Okay," he sighs between clenched teeth and stands yet again.

I yelp into the soaked cloth when he pulls at my quickly numbing limbs, a strong arm snaking around my waist and hoists me up off the floor, dumping me onto the chair. I'm dizzy from suddenly being in an upright position, and it doesn't help that his face is all of a sudden inches from mine.

"I'm gonna release your legs for a moment, Leese. If you play hero, I'll have to hurt you and I don't wanna do that just yet. Do you understand me?" His eyes search mine and I get to study his face for the first time since he forced himself into my apartment. That artist wasn't half wrong. Or was it I who knew his face all too well? I look away and wince when he grabs my chin and forces me to bend my head towards him again. "Do you hear what I'm saying? Nod or I'll have to be rough."

My eyes widen and I give him half a nod. His face splits into a smile. "Peachy."

So I don't move when he unties my legs and then attach them deftly to the legs of the chair on each side. Even though I could kick out and maybe, just maybe hit his face, I stand by my promise, hoping desperately that if I do what he says, then I might get out of this.

_ In a closed casket. _

My arms scream in protest when tingling blood rushes through compressed vessels as he releases my upper limbs temporarily and then ties them up again, the chair and I now connected as if we're a new entity. A new kind of animal.

Because I feel very far from being human, and humanity as I know it.

I wish dearly that he'd let me speak. I want him to tell me that he'll kill me. Or not. I  _ need _ to know.

When he's done, he studies his handiwork, strolling casually around the chair, regarding me with ice cold eyes, gleaming in the bright morning sun. "I am very pleased with you, Leese. You've been most compliant. I figured you'd fight more but this was easier than I anticipated." He stops briefly in front of me and smiles terrifyingly beautiful. "Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

My mouth turns dry. This is not what I thought. I know very well, crystal condemn-me-to-hell clear, where we were. My fingers ache from the memory of his warm skin against my fingertips, my chest still cries from the sudden loss of his weight on me as my father's voice resonated through the house. I know very, very well.

He looks at me and frowns. "Right. You can't talk." He sighs and then he snaps his fingers. "You didn't have this much clothing covering you."

My eyes bulge as he pulls out a large knife from somewhere. "Mmmmmmm!"

He grins wickedly. "It's a frightening sight, isn't it, Lisa?" He flips it in the vacuum between our bodies. "I'd truly hate to be at the receiving end of this." He presses the edge against the tip of his index finger and immediately a drop of crimson forms beneath it. He jerks the knife away and studies the blood. "Huh. I always forget how sharp this thing is." He bends over me and I twist my head to the side, the only motion I can achieve to try to get farther away from him. He inches closer, his legs between my thighs and when the knife reappears right before my eyes, I try to snap my head away, only to bump my cheek into his chest.

His scent is familiar. Breathtakingly so. My traitorous body responds to his closeness just like it has always done ever since he first stepped into my life. My belly clenches, my nipples harden, my breaths become gasps and heat floods my face. He can't possibly notice it on my tear streaked appearance and I take a tiny comfort in knowing that.

He snickers and pinches a piece of my blouse between his fingers, his fresh wound leaving a smear of blood on the white. Then the knife descends and I cry out, the sound muffled, pathetic. There's no pain, only a slight gush of cooler air on my shoulder as the fabric falls apart and reveals my pale skin. My whole body begins to shudder uncontrollably when the knife descends yet again, cutting away the blouse from my other arm, then in a smooth circle down my chest until I'm left with mere shreds and my bra.

His leer is too much for me to bear and I close my eyes hard. They fly open again as he pulls at one strap of my bra and slowly inserts the knife under it. He lets the two pieces fall before repeating the process on the other side. Then he crooks one finger inside the elastic fabric between my breasts, pulling it out and downwards before he cuts through it, making my bra fall apart with a snap. I groan uselessly into the rag and jerk against unyielding bonds.  _ Bastard! _ A sickly inner vision of that knife planted in my chest, blood pooling down on my thighs, soaking my pants, haunts me every time I close my eyes. So instead I get to watch as he slowly, slowly drags the knife along my trousers, the fabric giving no resistance to the sharpened steel, right leg, left leg, all the way up to my groin.

I gasp and buckle.  _ Please let me speak! Let me cry and plead!  _ I begin to yet again give in to the bleakness of my situation and drop my head in utter submission.

I blink when he stops his textile assault. "Look at me, Lisa. You don't get to get away from this. If you retreat into that pretty little head I'll beat at it until you come back out. Get me?"

I inhale shakily, cough, and almost choke as wetness seeps from my eyes, my nose, and my half-open mouth. I must be a vision. I nod slowly and look up. His eyes are level with mine and his frown dissolves as our eyes meet. "Good girl." Then he grips my pants with both hands and literally tears the rest of them apart and off me as much as he can with the chair and the ties and all.

The room isn't cold, far from it. Jackson has little beads of sweat on his forehead and I am sticky all over from the thick Floridian heat that has begun to rise. And yet I freeze, shudder, unable to control the spasms that wrack my body.

Puppy eyes are the best I can do, trying to hold his gaze as he steps around the chair and moves in behind me.  _ Please, leave me with some dignity! What will they say about me when they find me? That I was in on this? That it was a perverted sex game that turned deadly? _ I mourn my father's disappointment more than I mourn my life.

Something touches my shoulder, and it isn't cold and sharp. I flinch hard anyway only to find a warm hand slowly descending down my front, rounding my breast, just about touching it, a thumb brushing past my nipple, shying away, slipping lower, caressing my clenched belly before it stops at the edge of my panties. His chest leans against my back, his breath is on my neck. With his other hand he grips my chin and forces my head up and closer to him.

"Lisa," he whispers in my ear. "Hold that thought." With that he clenches his hands in the fabric of my panties and yanks them brutally to shreds before he leaves the room.

My front door slams shut.

I'm stunned by the sudden silence. Am I alone? Is it a trick? Waiting a few more precious seconds, I then frantically start trying to free myself, rough rope chafes tender skin on my ankles and wrists as I twist and turn, pull and shove, desperate to get loose. The chair is solid and heavy and at least it doesn't topple. Whether that's good or bad I'll never know. I fight for my life. I fail.

So here I sit.

Bound.

Gagged.

Naked.

If I had told them that he came to my father's house that day, would that have prevented this from happening? If my father had been able to get his hands, maybe his gun, on Jackson, would that have saved me? If the police had found a person to the name, would that have helped me now?

A lot of ifs.

My brain works on overdrive, my whole life passing by in my mind, my life and how it led up to this point. I jump with every sound in the building. Toilets flush. Dogs bark. A man and a woman shout. My stomach growls.

How can it think of food when its mistress is in this predicament?

My lips are dry, as are my cheeks, tears useless. I don't know how many hours that have passed but I have seen the shadows passing over the walls and figure it must be late afternoon. I missed breakfast and I've missed lunch. I'll miss dinner… How long does it take to starve to death? The tears come again, and I feel utterly sorry for myself.

I hear a key in the lock and my heart speeds up as I watch as a lean man clad in dark pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt come back into my life. I glare, seethe. If looks could kill, then Jackson would incinerate before my very eyes. He strides forward, lazily, munching on something and stuffs the last of whatever it was into his mouth before he licks his fingers clean, one after the other.

He stops after the third and regards me as if he sees me for the first time. Then he takes one stride towards me and reaches for my face. I bend away, waiting for the blow, but he sticks his hand between my lips and starts pulling out the stinking piece of cloth that I've learned to hate so much. Fresh air rushes into my lungs and I inhale deeply, intending to drown him in a stream of words when he stuffs my mouth with three, four, or more of his fingers, moving them tauntingly, slightly in, slightly out. He tastes of garlic, bread, kebab meat, chili, his fingers are slick, oily, rich with fresh tastes, and I'm unable to stop myself from licking at them, swirling my tongue between his digits until there's no taste left. I'm hungry! I want more! I need food!

His other hand presses at the back of my neck and the hand in my mouth is still pushing lewdly in and out. Suddenly his mouth descends on mine, his tongue intermingling with his own fingers as well as with my lips and tongue. He tastes wonderful. Of food and peppermint. Better than anyone has ever tasted before.

"I -ate -ou!" I manage between thrusts, lips, and the batter of hormones.

He moves away slightly and lets his eyes roam my naked body before turning back to my glare. "You ate me? Or you hate me?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

I finally spit out his fingers. "I  _ HATE _ you!"

"Mmmm, yes… well, considering, I'd say I have a lot more reason to hate  _ you _ ."

"You- No - _ What? _ " I stutter.

He crouches before me and puts his palms on my thighs, just a little too high for comfort. His touch tingles and itches. "See, Leese, you screwed me up, made me look like an idiot in front of my people, and on top of that, you gave them  _ everything _ , my picture, my fingerprints, strands of my hair! Goddamnit! Is there no stopping you?"

"You? I- "

"I know you feel offended, Lisa." His voice is deceptively soft, understanding. "I know you feel that you've been the subject of a vicious crime and that you are just an innocent pawn in a game that goes on way above your head. That you think that I'm just a crude murderer and kidnapper, a hideous person, barely human."

"Well…"  _ Yeah! _

"Then how is it that the mean assassin is sitting at your feet tonight, hungry for a hint of encouragement, longing to slip his hands up the inside of these silky thighs, to touch you, to find out what makes you tick, how to make you scream with desire, how to release you and make you free?"

My eye twitches. I had so many things I planned to yell at him as soon as he ungagged me, if ever, and now I find myself speechless.


	3. Completed

He wants  _ me _ ? He  _ wants _ me?

"Please, Jackson," I rasp, my voice unused for so many hours.

He raises his hand. "I'll untie you, Leese. In due time and when I decide to. You begging me for it to happen is pointless."

"What do you want me to do?" I whisper. "Are you going to kill me?"

At that he laughs and stands. He is beautiful, his head tilted down, his blue eyes twinkling, biting his lower lip. He leans closer, as if to whisper a secret in my ear. Then his face becomes a blur as it inches closer until his lips just about brush against mine. "I'm going to fuck you senseless, Leese. I'm going to ruin you for all future. When I'm done with you, you'll retreat back into that little shell and live out your life in solitude because you'll keep hoping that I'll come back." His tongue darts out and lick my lips briefly; I can't help opening my mouth to him. "And know what? I might. I just might."

His head slips lower and soft nibbling kisses descend along my neck, he licks my collar bone and then he bites me. My scar. He bites into it and I throw my head back and groan and buckle. "Stop! Please!"

"Don't make me regret taking that rag out of your mouth, Leese," he warns me, his voice a rumble against my chest. Then he crouches and grabs around my buttocks with both hands, pulling himself practically into my lap before letting his mouth finding my breast, paying excruciatingly close attention to my nipple.

My whole body has gone rigid. Just like calm is a state of mind rather than a fact, so is fear. At this particular moment I shouldn't have anything to fear. Anyone looking at this from the outside would see a lovers' game. Still I fear him. Increasingly. I want him to touch me, more and more with each lick and nibble, with each hot breath against my chest, with each deep squeeze of his hands on my buttocks. And still I fear what he'll do to me. I know he can be violent.

I don't know if he can be tender.

I've never felt so vulnerable in my entire life, not on the airplane when he threatened me and my father, not two years back, during the rape. Never. I can't move my arms or my legs. I'm naked before this man, whom I both hate and am frighteningly attracted to.

His skilled hands slide from my behind, along my trembling thighs, his thumbs inches from my throbbing core, and then he pulls my legs further apart, forcefully, my resistance nothing to his strength. With thumbs drawing circular patterns on the delicate skin on my inner thighs, his mouth licks its way down along my belly, making it shudder and clench, before he dips his head in between my legs. His breath is hot and the touch of his mouth on my nether flesh makes my toes curl and I arch the little I can against my restraints as jolts of pleasure shoot up through my body.

He drives me further than any man has done in a very long time and when he finally looks up at me with a mischievous grin, his eyes flashing, I tremble so hard that I'm unable to sit still. I clench and unclench my hands; so close, so close. The guttural sound that emanates from my throat makes me blush and widens his grin. He stands, bending over me and presses his mouth to mine, his scent and taste intermingling with mine.

"You taste so good, Lisa," he murmurs into my mouth and the arousal in his voice sends hot flares through me.

"Jackson," I whisper. "You…"

"Yes?"

"I-"

"Say it, Leese," he whispers softly and straighten, looking down at me. A muscle in his cheek twitches and he purses his lips as he regards me. Then he smiles, almost gently, almost compassionately.

Fear spikes again, mixing with arousal. I don't want to tell him how I feel. I don't want to bare my soul to this… murd-, kidn-, mons-, _man!_ _God!_ I see a man and nothing else. I'm ashamed of myself for letting go, for leaving the righteous path, for giving in.

"You make feel so weird," I whisper and bend my head.

"Look at me, Leese," he demands.

My head darts up, my gaze meeting his. "I'm afraid, Jackson."

He nods for me to go on. I squirm and wish he'd touch me again. "I haven't felt… you make me…" I lick my dry lips and wish him to hell.

One corner of his mouth curves upward. "I make you what?"

"You make me want you," I whisper, wishing myself to hell.

He leaves me there. Leaves the room and disappears into my kitchen. When he returns he's got a bottle of red wine in one hand and a glass in the other. At least it doesn't look like death. Not yet. My eyes dart between the items and his face. His gaze never leaves mine as he corks open the bottle, pours the glass to the rim, and takes a sip.

"Lovely stuff. Have some."

I'm starved, and desert dry from thirst, so I oblige willingly in spite of the doubtfulness of quenching thirst with alcohol. At first. I swallow a few gulps, then I need to breathe, and take a brief break from swallowing. He doesn't follow. Chilled liquid burgundy spills over my breasts, forms a flood across my belly and gathers between my legs. "What are you  _ doing _ ?" I sputter.

He stops pouring and leans closer. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Then he leans closer yet and circles my left and right nipples with his tongue as his free hand smears the wine over my belly, rougher and rougher with each stroke until he grabs a handful of my flesh and squeezes. Hard.

" _ God! _ " I cry out. Both from pain and lust, the two intermingling dizzyingly.

He takes a mouthful of the wine and puts down the glass, then he crashes his mouth against mine, the wine filling my mouth as his hands descend, pinching my thighs, the tender skin on the inside, excruciatingly close to my throbbing core. I groan into his mouth and respond fully, swallowing what I can, tasting him, taking what he offers as I stare challengingly into his eyes. He bites into my lower lip, just a little harder than what's comfortable and I try to break free but he puts one hand behind my neck, locking me to his mouth as he devours me, violently, passionately.

When he finally pulls back, I stare at him in equal parts shock and longing. He holds my gaze a moment longer, then he deftly pulls off his T-shirt and discards it on the floor. "You are so fuckin-" He exhales and suddenly turns the chair around so that I'm staring at the windows where the eerie light of sunset plays through slowly moving curtains.

"Jackson," I plead. "I'm hurting. My arms hurt."

He snorts. "Trust me, Leese. You don't know hurt."

I clamp my lips together as my heart makes an unhealthy jump. I yelp when the chair unexpectedly tilts, quickly but still in a controlled movement and I find myself on my back. Again I twist and buckle to no avail. "What are you doing?" I ask shakily.

He smirks down at me. "I thought you'd be more comfortable lying down. No?"

"What are you going to do?" I lick my wine-tasting lips and feel a rush of arousal as I taste him on me. "Let me loose." I whisper.

"I'd love to, Leese… there're just so many things I haven't tried yet." He kneels at my head and begins to unbuckle his belt, pushing his pants down and off, one leg at a time.

I can't help it. My eyes fill with tears and I turn my head away.  _ Oh God, don't make me! _ My throat constricts and a real sob escapes me. He gently pushes at my cheek until our eyes meet. "Too close?" he asks.

I nod repeatedly. "T'reminds me," I hiccup, barely making coherent words.

"I think we're already up to six anyways," he says and bends forward, his hands fiddling with one of my bound arms. "And it isn't even dark out yet."

"Six?" I whisper.

"Times that I've made you cry."

My right arm falls to the side. Loose. I can't move it. Numb. Heavy. My eyes follow his face as he concentrates on my left arm. "Make that six hundred," I rasp.

He sits down next to my head and takes my right arm in his hands, rubbing it. "How's that?"

"'Female driven emotion based dilemmas," I sneer. Then I grimace as circulation begins to return with a vengeance, an unbearable tingling rushing through my arm like a tsunami. "Ow!"

He grins. "It's a bitch, isn't it?"

I nod and groan.

"So what's been the dilemma?" He takes my left arm and begins to massage it.

I try to lift my right arm to wipe away tears, wine, snot; all the stickiness that feels as if smeared all over my face. I only almost hit my head and nowhere near my face before it falls, useless, back to the floor in an odd angle somewhere out of my sight.

He laughs out loud. "You won't be able to hit a cow's ass with that thing for the next fifteen minutes."

I huff and drag my arm across the floor until it lies along my side again.

"You didn't answer my question."

I bite my lip and endure as the tingling pain rushes through my left arm as well. "Why are you doing this to me?" I gasp.

He leans closer and licks my lower lip slowly, sensuously. "Because I can. Because you need it. Because you deserve it. Now be a good girl and answer the question."

Outside the night has taken over completely and a slightly chilly breeze drifts across the room. I shudder. "The dilemma being that I hate your guts and still want… you." I blurt it out as fast as I can, hoping that he won't catch the words.

"I really don't see the problem," he says, his nose practically touching mine. My now not-so-useless right arm has begun to search the floor next to me, hoping to find something, anything, that can be of use. I find the glass with wine. A quick calculation comes up with that shards of glass would be raining all over me if I smash it to his head. And it'll hardly incapacitate him anyway. So instead I aim and throw the wine in his face. And eye for an eye.

He blinks and gasp, his surprise real, and I twist trying to get my bearings right so that I can untie my legs.

With a growl, low and dangerous, he grabs my arms in his hands and pulls them up over my head, pressing them to the floor. His eyes are shadowed, dark and filled with rage as we stare at each other for a moment. Then his features lighten and he raises his eyebrows, wine dripping off of them as they move.

"Well, I guess I had that coming." He tugs hard at my arms. "You do realize this means war?"

I shake my head and try to form words. He tugs again and snatches a rope up from the floor, tying it tightly around my wrists. I groan when my still aching arms are forced into yet another uncomfortable position. Then he leans to the side and begins untying my legs, one at a time. When they fall free I try to kick out and roll out of his reach, but he scoops up my wriggling body and carries me to the couch where he dumps me before falling on top of me, pinning me to the cushions.

"Was it the 'dilemma' that set that off? Because before I thought we were getting along just fine," he pants.

"You fuckin'… get off me… I'm gonna…  _ help _ !" I howl before he kisses me, stealing my breath, and that last cry, away.

Slipping smoothly in between my thighs, his hips buck into me. I let him in, welcoming the oddly familiar feeling of his weight on me. The skin on his legs is warm and the little hairs coarse. The proof of his arousal sends spikes of want from every corner and every crevice of my body.

"Oh God, please," I beg into his mouth.

"You're giving me very mixed signals," he mumbles back into mine.

I huff and force my tied arms up, threading them over his head, embracing his lean, warm shoulders.

His want is real. For real. No lies, no deception. Not this time. In rushed, jerky moves, he rids himself of his briefs and eases himself back up against my body, slick, sticky, and sweaty. He repositions his hips and for a moment we're absolutely still, unbreathing, new, and then he pushes forward, demandingly, needy. I cry out from the sudden fullness and completion; my gasp, my moan, and my breathlessness matching his.

"Leese," he pants. "Oh fuck, Leese!"

I hold on, clench my arms around his hunched shoulders, feeling muscles ripple underneath hot, damp skin as he moves in me with deep frenzied strokes. My legs curl around his back, pushing myself closer to him, him deeper inside.

His teeth crash against my mouth, probably bruising it, but I barely feel any pain. I suck on his lips, his tongue, savoring his taste, his scent and his immeasurable passion. His frenzy and my wriggling soon drives us off the couch, sends us sliding onto the floor where he rolls and pulls me up over him. He grabs my hips hard, his fingers digging deep into my flesh, and slams me down onto him over and over. I can't support my weight on my tied-up arms and fall. He catches me before I hurt myself and twists around again, tugging me back under him. The carpet is squishy and reeks of wine. I don't care. I yank at his hair and pull his face closer, catching his mouth again.

I vibrate, hum, drown. My whole body tingles and my breath comes in short gasp as the tension that has been building inside me finally meets its release in a first wave of rapidly clenching muscles. I moan loudly into his mouth and arch into him, desperately grasping for his shoulders, his neck, his heaving chest, spasm after spasm transferring through his body and sending him over the edge as well. He swells, fills me, devours my body and my soul.

Leaving me with nothing.

When we finally still, I let out a raw sob.

"I told you I'd ruin you," he whispers into my ear.

I look away. I still tremble.

When he stands, I swallow hard.  _ Please, let me go! _ He is silent for a moment, then he snorts and I hear soft rustles moving away, naked feet on a plush carpet. My heart rate speeds up.  _ Is he leaving? _

I begin to uncurl and glance behind me. I can't see him and start pushing myself up off the floor. Just as I'm on all fours, a pair of dark-clad legs comes back into the room. My eyes trace the legs upwards. He's already dressed himself. His face is dark, stained with dried wine in irregular blotches. I push myself up further until I'm resting on my knees.

Jackson strides closer, slowly, with measured moves. "Jeez, Leese. You look like shit."

I wince. I'm sure I do. "You're no sight for sore eyes either, Jack," I snap.

He flashes me a half smile and crouches before me. "You do know what comes next, don't you?" he asks softly.

My heart stops.  _ No. No I don't. _ I shake my head mutedly.

He lays an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him, my back against his chest. His thumb strikes my shoulder, back and forth, back and forth, soothingly, sweetly. "Yes, you do, Leese," he whispers into my ear.

I inhale shakily. Then fear, full-blown fear, erupts inside me, making my world topple.  _ Nononononononono! _ Nauseous, I attempt to wriggle out of his hold in spite of my tied-up hands, but he clamps his arm tighter around my chest. I twist and turn, trying to straighten my legs out from under me to gain some leverage, but he holds me down easily, making my efforts futile.

"Sh, sh, sh, Lisa. Easy." I calm slightly when I hear his voice. It's warm, full of promises.

When I feel the cold, sharp steel on my throat I scream right out. Loudly, panicky. His hand lets go of my shoulder and clamps down over my mouth, pressing the back of my head tightly against his chest. I hyperventilate and try desperately to shake him off.

"It'll be fast," he murmurs. "A quick sting and then nothing but numbness as you bleed out." He leans closer yet. "The way we should all go, if we have a choice," he mouths into my ear.

_ PLEASE! _ I try to say, but it only comes out as a muffled groan into his palm. Then he moves; his wrist flicks and it hurts. Bad. Reflexively, I arch upwards but he doesn't let go. Warmth gushes over my chest and thighs in growing rivulets. I fall back into his embrace and try to breathe in but I can't. My joined hands lift once and then they fall back on my legs.

He didn't lie.

The hurt soon fades as I begin to lose my body: my feet, my hands, my legs, my arms. The blessed numbness spreads rapidly and I feel light and heavy. I'm lighter than air, tied to the ground.

My head lolls to the side, coming to a final rest against his chest. From a distance I hear a heart beating.

His scent surrounds me.

_ There could have been another way… If only you had been another you. _

_ Or I another me... _

THE END.


End file.
